


One Night of Honesty

by cyankelpie



Series: Truth and Trust [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Feels, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale in Denial (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Boundaries, But also aware that he's in denial, Canon Compliant, Drunken Confessions, Excessive Drinking, Intricate Rituals, Other, Pining while Confessing, Pre-Apocalypse, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Trust, Truth Spells, it's complicated - Freeform, mental gymnastics, they're both trying their best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:46:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29471178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyankelpie/pseuds/cyankelpie
Summary: Crowley should not be in the bookshop right now. Heaven has stripped Aziraphale of the ability to lie, and he's gotten himself so drunk that he's completely incapable of holding back the truth. It's the perfect storm of circumstances for him to accidentally let slip something that he can never take back, and he would never forgive Crowley if he let that happen.So why did Aziraphale start drinking in the first place, and why is he so adamant that Crowley stay?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Truth and Trust [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2167536
Comments: 47
Kudos: 133
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	One Night of Honesty

**Author's Note:**

> Seven months ago, I wrote a [Crowley on truth serum fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24844978), and someone in the comments suggested a truth serum!Aziraphale fic to go along with it. I thought about it for a bit, but couldn't get the idea to go anywhere, and shelved it. Recently, I came back to it, and this time the idea stuck enough for me to finish it.
> 
> Anyway, here's another round of forced honesty, boundary-respecting, and excruciatingly intricate rituals.

Crowley had just put his fingers together to snap himself into his pajamas when the telephone rang. He looked back toward the bedroom door with a sigh. He wasn’t expecting any calls tonight, and when that was the case, he usually only answered the telephone to tell whoever it was to go away and stop calling him. Supposedly, someone had invented a machine which would do that for him. He’d been meaning to get one.

The telephone rang again. “Fine,” Crowley muttered, stalking out of the bedroom and following the noise into the office. He’d been looking forward to a long night’s rest, but if someone had bothered to call at this hour of the night, it was probably important. “No rest for the wicked, hm?” he picked up the phone. “Anthony Crowley. Make it quick.”

“Crowley,” said a familiar voice, sounding very put out. “I’m on the floor.”

Crowley took the receiver away from his ear and looked at it for a moment. Aziraphale only called Crowley when something was wrong, but “I’m on the floor” didn’t sound serious enough to warrant a phone call. “I’m sorry to hear that, Aziraphale, but you can hardly blame me.”

“Didn’t _mean_ to be on the floor,” the angel slurred. “The phone was so far away, and everything was wobbly, so I had to _crawl_. How did you do it? S’not fun at all.”

“You’re drunk,” Crowley said. “Aziraphale, I gave you this number for emergencies.”

“Yes, an’ thank you for that, my dear. Far more convenient than letters.”

“Is this an emergency?”

“Emergency? Where, what happened?”

“That’s what I just—” Crowley rubbed the bridge of his nose. “How many’ve you had, angel?”

Aziraphale giggled. “Oh, I like it when you call me that.”

Crowley blinked. Aziraphale was always careful not to express anything of that sort around him. Or, if he had, Crowley had been too drunk to remember. Aziraphale didn’t often drink alone, either. “A lot, then,” he decided. “What’s wrong? Why did you call me?”

“Nothing’s wrong, darling,” said Aziraphale. “Jus’ wanted t’ talk to you. Always lovely to talk t’ you, Crowley. Always.”

Aziraphale never said that. He always had an excuse on hand, or he would imply without stating, or he would say what he didn’t mean with an unconvincing scowl. He never called Crowley just to chat, and he never said that was the reason, and he definitely never called Crowley “darling.”

Crowley tried to ignore how loud his pulse was. “Maybe you should sober up, Aziraphale.”

“No,” Aziraphale insisted. “I shan’t.”

Crowley let out an impatient breath. “You are extremely drunk.”

“Only a lot,” said Aziraphale. “I mean, just a lot. Oh bother—m’trying to say ‘little,’ only I can’t lie, cause of the stuff. Y’should join me,” he added excitedly. “S’always more fun with you around. Got a nice bottle of—No, drat, I finished that one.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, frowning. “What do you mean, you can’t lie?”

“You know, cause of the stuff. Oh, here’s some nice—no, that one’s empty too.”

“No, I don’t know. What stuff?” Crowley said slowly.

“All the commotion, you know, in heaven,” Aziraphale said vaguely. “The inkwi—inquisitive—” he sighed impatiently. “Like in Spanish, er, Spain. You know.”

“An inquisition?”

“Yes, that one. Inquisivition.” Aziraphale sounded pleased with himself, apparently unaware that he had mispronounced it that time, too.

Crowley’s grip on the phone tightened. “What happened? Are you in trouble with heaven?”

“Oh, no, s’all been taken care of. D’you remember last time we drank? You drew that cartoon of Sand…Sandeman? No, that’s port wine. _Sandal_ man.”

“Sandalphon? Uh, sure. About the inquisition—”

“Well, apparently _someone_ miracled it onto his desk.”

“That was you!” Crowley straightened and stepped as far from the desk as the phone cord would allow. “That had to have been you, angel, I can’t send stuff to heaven anymore—”

“Well, Sandalman wouldn’t stand for it, so they had to find out who’d done it.”

“You said you weren’t in trouble!”

“Told you, m’fine. I’m not the one who drew it.” He giggled. “Which I told them, and they had to believe me, ‘cause of the stuff.”

Something heavy settled into the pit of Crowley’s stomach as the pieces fell into place. “They can force you to tell the truth?”

“F’course,” said Aziraphale, far calmer than Crowley felt the situation called for. “M’n’angel, I shouldn’t have to lie anyway. I do, though, always. Not a very good angel.” He hiccupped. “They don’t do it often, but after such dis—disres—not caring ‘bout Sandalman’s authority, couldn’t let that stand. Not good f’r angels.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, horrified. The angel had so much that he needed to keep hidden. He had lied about his flaming sword and disobeyed orders countless times, and that didn’t even begin to cover the Arrangement. He couldn’t hide behind partial truths and logical technicalities forever. If Aziraphale couldn’t lie, the archangels would find out about everything. “I’ll be right over,” he said, digging in one of the desk drawers for his extra pair of sunglasses. “We’ll figure this out, okay?”

“That would be wonderful,” said Aziraphale, sounding far more pleased and less concerned than he should. “I’ll see you soon Crowley. You’ve got to try this—hm, s’the first empty bottle again. I’ll find something for you.”

Crowley found his sunglasses and shoved them onto his face. “Be there in five.” He hung up and sprinted out of his flat.

He tried to swallow his panic as he sped to the bookshop, taking all the corners even more tightly than usual. This was very, very bad. Crowley had never broken a heavenly spell before. Could it even be done? There had to be a way—or maybe that was just the desperation talking. What would heaven do to the angel? Would they make him fall, or…worse? He should have known they couldn’t go behind their bosses’ backs forever. He should have been more careful. He should have been properly prepared to protect Aziraphale, with hellfire and holy water, but Dagon had denied all seventeen of his requests, and he’d never successfully navigated the maze of corridors to reach the supply closet where they kept the hellfire, and getting holy water by himself would be nearly impossible since Aziraphale had refused—

No, he couldn’t think about that now. It hadn’t even been a decade since they’d started speaking to each other after the argument. Crowley couldn’t scare him away by asking for too much, not again.

He slammed on the breaks in front of the bookshop, and the Bentley skidded for half a block. Crowley jumped out before it had completely stopped moving, ran to the bookshop door, and charged inside. “Aziraphale?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s ecstatic voice called from the back room. There was a muffled thud. “Oof—oh, no,” said Aziraphale. “And I’d only just gotten back on th’ chair.”

Crowley’s nose wrinkled. The whole bookshop reeked of alcohol. Satan, how much had Aziraphale drunk? “Went a little wild, did you, angel?” Crowley stepped into the back room and froze.

If he hadn’t believed Aziraphale about the honesty spell, there could be no doubt now. Aziraphale was sitting on the floor next to the armchair, his legs out in front of him, gazing at Crowley in complete adoration. He had always been so careful to hide his feelings, tucking them behind clasped hands and evasive glances. Crowley caught snatches of them from time to time, when he was lucky. Now, everything he felt was written on his face clear as a neon sign. Crowley wasn’t supposed to see him like this. He felt like he’d just walked in on Aziraphale naked. Averting his eyes, he cleared his throat. “I thought you’d have sobered up.”

Aziraphale gave a distressed grunt. “Don’t want to.”

Crowley took a few careful steps and looked around the room, so he wouldn’t have to look at Aziraphale. The empty bottles strewn across the floor looked like the type that held hard spirits, not Aziraphale’s usual wine. At the edge of the rug, a puddle of something that smelled like paint thinner had crept dangerously close to the bookcase. “What…what happened in here?”

“Had a few drinks,” said Aziraphale. “Here, my dear, I poured you one.” He reached up towards the side table and knocked off a tumbler of something dark that had been sitting there. Crowley drew a sharp breath, but the tumbler bounced on the soft carpet and rolled until it clinked against a vodka bottle.

Crowley knelt and picked up the tumbler and the bottle. “You don’t even like vodka.”

“Oh, like you’re one to talk, th’ way you drink.”

“Aziraphale, I can’t remember the last time I drank like this.” Crowley waved his arms at the mess around them. “Look, just—sober up, and then we can figure something out.”

“Figure what out?”

“The spell! The—the truth spell you told me about.” Crowley snapped his fingers, and the bottles arranged themselves neatly on the coffee table. The puddle near the bookcase disappeared, and the smell of alcohol lessened slightly. “How do we break it?”

Aziraphale laughed. “Oh. No. No need for that.”

“Of course there is,” Crowley said through gritted teeth. “Aziraphale. Think about it. If you report to Gabriel next week, and he asks what you’ve been up to, and you tell him you’ve been having lunch with a demon—”

Aziraphale drew a gasp. “Crowley! I’d never endanger you, dearest. I might not be able to lie, but I won’t tell them everything _._ S’called _self-control._ ”

Crowley firmly ignored “dearest,” and said, “Right, ‘cause you’re controlling yourself so well right now.”

Aziraphale started giggling uncontrollably. “Well, I’m—Crowley—m’actually quite innnebriated right now.” He whispered the last part, as if someone might overhear.

“Is that so,” Crowley said flatly.

“S’true!” Aziraphale insisted. “I haven’t ever drink—haven’t drank—haven’t drinken in this state before.” His giggling increased. “It’s fun. Should do this every time.”

“They’ve done this to you before?” Crowley said, desperately trying to keep him on subject. “When? How did you break it?”

“Break…? No, it usually wears off in a day or so. How long’s left, lessee…” He heard Aziraphale twisting around on the carpet. “Crowley, why’d you give the clock extra hands?”

“It wears off,” Crowley repeated. Pressing his lips together, he drew a deep breath in through his nose and let it out slowly. Through a great effort of will, he managed to keep himself from flying off the handle. “It _wears off—_ Aziraphale, what the heaven did you call me for? I thought you were in trouble.”

“Am I in trouble?” Aziraphale asked. “Well, I’m not worried, if you’re here. Good—good of you to look out for me, my dear. Always so good to me.”

Crowley gritted his teeth. He had worried over nothing. He had rushed over, and barged into the shop, and caught a forbidden glance of Aziraphale looking at him like _that,_ for nothing. “Right. If nothing’s wrong, I’m leaving.”

“What?” From Aziraphale’s voice, you would think Crowley had just announced his intention to burn every first-edition Wilde in the world, starting with those on the shelf over there. “No, no, don’t leave. You just got here, an’ I’m still on the floor.” He heard a bit of scuffling while Aziraphale struggled to climb back into the chair, and then he bumped to the floor again. “S’not usually this hard.”

Still avoiding eye contact behind his sunglasses, Crowley sighed, walked over, and offered Aziraphale his hands. Aziraphale took them eagerly and let Crowley pull him to his feet so he could collapse back into the chair. “Oh, much better,” he said wiggling himself into the cushion. He hadn’t let go of Crowley’s hands, and now his thumbs were stroking back and forth on the backs of them. “Always so good to me,” he mumbled. “Would you take off your glasses, dear? Your eyes’r so beautiful.”

Crowley’s heart was in his throat. He pulled his hands out of Aziraphale’s loose grip, reached up, and carefully pushed his sunglasses closer to his face. They needed to keep one barrier between them, at least. “I should go.”

“Don’t,” said Aziraphale. “Please.”

“Sober up, then,” said Crowley, backing towards the door. He reached the doorframe and put out a hand to steady himself. “If you don’t sober up right now, I’m leaving. I promise you, Aziraphale, you’ll regret this tomorrow.”

“Pff.” Aziraphale looked momentarily to one side. Perhaps he was trying to roll his eyes. “Doubt I’ll even remember this tomorrow.”

Then Crowley understood. Aziraphale had known how many hours were left of the truth spell when he started drinking. Perhaps he had known he was likely to call Crowley. He must have known the sort of things he would feel compelled to do and say in his presence.

Crowley tried to swallow. It was difficult. His voice cracked when he asked, “Why are you doing this?”

“Well, for you, my dear,” Aziraphale said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Wanted t’ talk to you. I never really talk to you.”

He had said as much over the phone. Crowley hadn’t realized that he’d meant he wanted to talk to Crowley without any of his usual filters or fears, or even a hint of self-control, when he probably wouldn’t even have the memory of the conversation to feel guilty about. Crowley had no idea how to feel. “Angel, I-I don’t—”

“Oh, I do love it when you call me that,” Aziraphale breathed. “I can always hear it, you know, what you mean. But I’ve never had something like that, to let you know how I love you.”

Crowley’s entire body tensed. There it was, the thing he’d always wanted to hear out loud, but had been desperately hoping Aziraphale wouldn’t let slip tonight. It wasn’t that he hadn’t known—of course he had, always. But they both knew the risks, and talking about it was too strong a temptation. Aziraphale, the usual, sober, in-his-right-mind-Aziraphale, would never say it. He couldn’t take that back.

Aziraphale drew a slow breath in the silence as his sluggish mind realized what he’d said. “Oh,” he said quietly. “That wasn’t so hard after all.”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley’s voice cracked. His heart felt like it was tearing itself in two. “You can’t say that.”

“I can,” Aziraphale said stubbornly. “I just did. Look: I love you, Crowley. I love you, m’in love with you—”

“Stop,” Crowley croaked. He leaned against the doorframe, clutching his shaking hands together like a nervous Aziraphale might have done. It was like watching a car wreck, after the drivers had ignored his warnings to slow down, and now it was too late. All he could do now was try to contain the damage. “What if someone hears?” he said, trying to use Aziraphale’s usual logic against him.

“S’nobody here but you, Crowley.”

 _I could hear,_ Crowley thought, but didn’t say.

“Y’ should try it, too.”

Crowley shook his head. He didn’t know whether Aziraphale would forgive him for that. “Can’t—can’t.”

“Oh. Well, y’ don’t need to. I understand,” Aziraphale said softly. When he next spoke, a note of concern leaked into his voice. “Crowley? I thought you’d be happy. Why aren’t you happy?”

Happy about what? The fact that, in six thousand years, the only circumstance in which Aziraphale could say he loved Crowley was when he was incapable of holding it back? Or the fact that he had done everything in his power to make sure he forgot that he had ever said it? Crowley drew a deep breath, and when he spoke, his voice shook just a little. “What happens if you do remember this tomorrow?”

Aziraphale’s hands, which were the closest thing to his face that Crowley was willing to risk looking at, clenched in white-knuckled panic. That broke whatever was left of Crowley’s heart. “I-I won’t,” Aziraphale stuttered. “I won’t, I—Do I need more? S’another bottle around here somewhere, one that’s not empty—”

“I’ll tell you,” Crowley went on, struggling to keep his voice slow and calm. “If you remember, you’ll be mortified. You probably won’t speak to me for a century. And—and it’ll be my fault, Aziraphale. You always make it my fault.”

“It’s not,” Aziraphale said, still turning around as he looked for another bottle. “I invited you—”

“You were already three sheets to the wind when you called. You’ll say I should have known better—”

Aziraphale twisted too far and fell out of the chair again. “Doesn’t _matter,_ ” he said huffily. “I won’t remember. S’true, I can’t lie right now.”

Crowley sighed and rubbed his face with both hands. “So I get to carry the guilt of this conversation all by myself. Gee, thanks, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale sniffled. “I thought you’d be happy,” he said, his voice thick with more than just alcohol. “M’sorry I can’t—I can’t—normally. But. Wanted you to know.”

Steeling himself, Crowley glanced up at Aziraphale’s face. The angel was crying, his eyes turning pink at the edges, his lower lip wobbling. It felt unfair for him to start crying in the middle of an argument, but he couldn’t help it right now. Looking away again, Crowley stepped forward, miracled up a handkerchief, and held it out to him. Aziraphale grabbed for the handkerchief and missed, twice. He’d probably poke himself in the eye if he tried to wipe his eyes.

Crowley debated with himself for a moment, and then knelt next to Aziraphale. The angel made a small question-mark noise as Crowley raised the handkerchief and dabbed at the tears on his cheeks. “Did you think I didn’t know?” Crowley asked.

“Maybe.” Aziraphale’s head moved when he shrugged, and the handkerchief jabbed him in the eye. “Ow.”

“Hold still.” Crowley finished cleaning up his face. “Angel, of course I knew. You’re not as subtle as you think.”

Aziraphale broke into a bright, tearstained smile. “Oh, good,” he said, reaching out to pat whatever bit of Crowley was easiest to reach, which turned out to be his elbow. “Jus’ wanted to make sure.”

There was something incredibly humbling about the idea that Aziraphale had done all of this, had stripped away all his defenses and allowed Crowley into his sanctum while he was vulnerable, just in case Crowley had any doubt about how he felt. Maybe he trusted Crowley more than Crowley gave him credit for. Maybe trying to forget was meant as a kindness to Crowley, so that neither would feel obligated to distance themselves afterwards. It was an absurdly intricate dance that he’d created, but Aziraphale was like that. He needed these rules, if only so he could find a loophole.

There were a million things Crowley wanted to ask, like _did you know this would happen,_ and _did you want this to happen,_ and _am I really supposed to be here, or am I trespassing, please, I’m trying not to push you but I don’t know what you want me to do._ In Aziraphale’s current state, he would have to answer honestly, which was exactly why Crowley couldn’t ask. He couldn’t take advantage of this. He needed to leave Aziraphale with some remaining shred of plausible deniability. Instead of asking, Crowley got to his feet, set the handkerchief on the table, and held out his hands. “Maybe the sofa’d be better,” he suggested. “Harder to fall if you’re laying down. You’ll want to sleep all that off, anyway, if you aren’t planning to sober up.”

“Oh—clever, my dear,” Aziraphale slurred, taking Crowley’s hands. “Lovely, clever serpent. So smart.”

Crowley pulled him to his feet, steered him to the sofa, and plopped him down. He pulled his hands free and ignored the way Aziraphale tried to follow them. Then he lifted Aziraphale’s legs onto the sofa and stood there to make sure he didn’t fall off while he was trying to get comfortable. “Will you be alright if I leave, Aziraphale? You won’t, I dunno, decide to call Gabriel up and tell him what you think of him?”

Aziraphale made a distressed noise and shook his head. “Why would I call Gabriel? Don’ like talking to him.” He turned towards Crowley and reached for him, his hands falling just short of Crowley’s hip. “I don’t want you t’ leave, though.”

“Are you sure?” Crowley asked. “I can stay until you fall asleep, but if you’ll want to talk more, I don’t think I should—

“I’ll sleep,” Aziraphale said, his eyes wide and earnest and barely focusing on Crowley. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’ll be quiet. Sleep’s easier, with you here. Feels safe.”

A lump formed in Crowley’s throat at the thought of how much Aziraphale must trust him. He’d had no idea. He nodded, stepped forward, and sat down in the armchair. It was strange, sitting in the spot that Aziraphale had always occupied. He’d been in this room so often, and never seen it from exactly this perspective. The chair sat between the sofa and the door, angled so that whoever sat here could see both with only a slight turn of the head. It was the perfect position to guard the sofa. How had Crowley been here so many times, and never noticed?

When he glanced at the sofa, Aziraphale was looking back at him with tears in his eyes. Crowley started. “What’s wrong?”

“I won’t remember,” Aziraphale burst out. “S’all so unfair. Why can’t I—why can’t—”

“Hey, shh, it’s alright.” Crowley grabbed the handkerchief and leaned over to dab at his eyes again. “We’ve managed this long.”

“I _love_ you,” he sobbed. “For so long—Why can’t I just say it?”

“I know,” Crowley said hurriedly. “I know you do. You never had to say it.”

“An’ I’ll wake up, and I’ll—I’ll feel awful all over again, thinking you’ll never know—Because I can’t, I can’t ever—M’a coward, useless angel—”

Crowley’s chest throbbed again. And Aziraphale had done all of this with the intention of forgetting, knowing that he wouldn’t get the relief of having gotten it off his chest. “You’re not,” he said, laying a careful hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Angel, you’re none of that. I understand why it needs to be this way.”

Aziraphale grabbed his wrist and held Crowley’s gaze with wide eyes. “You’ll remember,” he half-whispered. “Won’t you?”

“Of course,” Crowley assured him, gently prying Aziraphale’s fingers off of him and setting his hand back on the sofa. “Close your eyes and get some sleep, angel. It’ll all be okay in the morning.”

“And you’ll be here?”

Crowley didn’t know whether Aziraphale meant he would be here to guard him while he slept, or to greet him in the morning. The first was a bad idea, in case Crowley was still here when he woke. The second was impossible. “I’ll be here,” he lied, setting the handkerchief on the table.

Aziraphale relaxed and let his hand drop, dangling, off the sofa. He shut his eyes, shifted until he found the right position, and eventually stopped moving. After several minutes, his breathing evened out and the worry lines smoothed out of his face. Sleep was one of the few times Aziraphale stopped worrying. He looked so peaceful that Crowley almost didn’t recognize him.

The rhythm of Aziraphale’s breathing slowed, and Crowley sat in the armchair for another twenty minutes to make certain Aziraphale was asleep. Then he left, drove himself home, and stayed awake until sunrise wondering whether he should have said _I love you, too._

* * *

It was late afternoon when Crowley woke, disoriented, to the sound of the phone ringing again. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d overslept, but dammit, he’d had things to do today, and now he’d have to rush a few of his schemes to get them done on schedule. Who the heaven was calling him, anyway? He didn’t get many calls, and hadn’t he gotten one just last night?

Ah.

His heart lurched into his stomach so suddenly it knocked him out of bed. He sprinted to the phone and stared at it for three rings while he caught his breath. Maybe it wasn’t Aziraphale. It probably wasn’t Aziraphale. What would Aziraphale have to tell him, anyway? He never gave any warning before he distanced himself from Crowley, he just disappeared and stopped answering his letters. And if he really didn’t remember, what could he possibly have to say?

He picked up the phone, swallowing to wet his dry throat. “‘Lo?”

“Crowley?” It was Aziraphale’s voice after all. He sounded uncertain, and perhaps a little frightened. “Er…were you over here last night?”

Crowley’s heart hammered. He sat down in the desk chair. “You remember?”

“Not much,” said Aziraphale. A wave of relief—was it relief?—passed through Crowley. “I-I sincerely apologize. I had a few too many. I must have been extremely inebriated when you came by.”

So they were going to pretend Aziraphale hadn’t called, and Crowley had just dropped by on his own initiative. Maybe Aziraphale really believed that. Or maybe he had just convinced himself that was the truth. “S’no problem. Not like I’ve never seen you sloshed before.” That was normal, that was safe. He and Aziraphale got drunk together all the time. That was all it had been.

“Ah.” A tiny bit of the tension in Aziraphale’s voice relaxed. “Well, you—you left something over here, I believe. A handkerchief? At least, I assume it’s yours. It’s black, and I don’t own any…”

Gritting his teeth, Crowley leaned forward and laid his head against the cool surface of the desk. Of course he’d left evidence, of _course_ he’d ruined Aziraphale’s carefully orchestrated plan to forget it ever happened. “Yeah, that’s mine.” He considered fabricating an explanation for why he’d left behind a handkerchief, but he couldn’t think of a plausible one that didn’t involve one of them crying. Hopefully the tear spots had dried, or Aziraphale would pretend not to notice them. “Um, you can just…I dunno, keep it, if you want.”

There was a pause. “I can’t keep this here, Crowley.”

Of course. It probably reeked of demonic miracles. Stupid, to think Aziraphale might keep something from him. “Just…give it back next time I see you, then.”

“Ah. Yes, I’ll do that, then.”

Crowley’s spirits lifted a tiny bit at the confirmation that Aziraphale could imagine himself seeing Crowley again relatively soon. “Well, if that’s all,” he said, straightening and preparing to hang up. Surely Aziraphale would end the call now. They had nothing else of interest to discuss.

“Wait,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley winced. “I’m sorry, but I know I must have been truly, catastrophically drunk, so I have to ask—did anything, er, happen? While you were here?”

He certainly did not “have” to ask. He’d made it clear that he didn’t want to hear the real answer, which meant Crowley had no choice but to lie to him. He was sick of being forced to lie to Aziraphale for his own good. But it was probably his fault that Aziraphale needed that lie right now, since he had left the damp handkerchief in the bookshop. If Aziraphale needed him to make light of the situation, then that was what he would do. Throwing on a cocky grin, and waggling his eyebrows so that his voice would be properly teasing, he said, “Just what are you implying, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale let out an irritated huff. “Oh, good Lord. There is no need for that tone, Crowley—”

“I’m just curious what sort of things you think might _happen_ when you’re drunk _._ ”

“You’re a demon! You could have, I don’t know, convinced me to send another rude drawing to one of the archangels.”

Crowley ignored the pang of guilt in his chest, snapped his fingers, and said, “Ah, I knew I was forgetting something. I had a great idea for another one, by the way. Gabriel, as a pigeon, with a massive stick up his—”

“ _Really,_ Crowley. You’re incorrigible.”

“I’m a demon,” Crowley said. “But, nah, you don’t have to worry. No mischief, demonic or otherwise. Unless you count the drinking.”

“I see,” said Aziraphale. He paused for a beat, and then: “Thank you.”

Crowley grunted to show his discomfort at being thanked. He couldn’t tell if the gratitude was for him not taking the opportunity to play more pranks on Aziraphale and the archangels, or for pretending that nothing was out of the ordinary. Aziraphale must know that Crowley would lie to him if necessary. He never would have asked if he thought Crowley would tell him the truth.

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “that’s all. I apologize again for my…for my state last night.”

“Angel, it’s nothing,” Crowley lied again. “Not the first time I’ve seen you drunk.”

“Ah…yes, you’re right.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Good afternoon, then.”

“Right,” Crowley said as casually as he could manage. “Ciao.”

He hung up and let out a deep breath. For several long minutes, he stared at the phone, scenes from the previous night replaying in his head. He thought about Aziraphale’s panic at the suggestion that he might remember his confession, and his tears over the fact that he wouldn’t, and Crowley’s lie over the phone just now. He hoped he’d done the right thing. He knew Aziraphale better than any other being in the universe, and he still struggled to follow the tangled threads of self-denial that he wove around himself. Aziraphale had trusted him to do what he needed, hadn’t he? Or was that Crowley’s wishful thinking?

It was impossible to know what Aziraphale was really thinking. Sometimes, Crowley doubted that even Aziraphale knew. Crowley mentally shifted everything on his to-do list to tomorrow, went to the kitchen to pour himself a drink, and wished he could make himself forget it all, too.


End file.
